


Weapon

by Helholden



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Double Agents, F/M, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mr. Malfoy,” he says with care, “there are moments to wear our masks, and there are moments to take them off. As long as you are in my office, you are not at the dance, and I would ask you to please remove it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Note:** This is a very old fic. It was originally posted on LJ under my pseudonym for the HP fandom, but since deleted. I wrote it in between 2004 and 2006, but since it was transferred from one computer to another, the original timestamp on the file was removed from it and replaced with the transfer date, so I'm not sure when I wrote it. I'm posting it without altering anything. It's nice to see how much my writing has changed through the years and how much remains the same. The lyrics included in each individual heading are from the song “Butterflies and Hurricanes” by Muse.

* * *

 

 

_“A thought, even a possibility, can shatter and transform us.”_

\- Friedrich Nietzsche

 

 

 

 

_i. change_

 

There isn’t a defining moment when it happens.

 

He doesn’t know how it happened. Quite frankly, he wonders if anyone notices what he thinks should be shockingly obvious to the rest of the world. Every time a pair of eyes lands on him, he freezes somewhere in the back of his mind. _They know_ , he thinks. They have to know.

 

He is paranoid in the hallway. He doesn’t want to be in it. It’s too crowded; there are too many people hanging about. Too many eyes are watching him. The reasons are numerous and unending. He feels suffocated.

 

The bell isn’t about to ring just yet, but he shuffles his way into the Arithmancy classroom anyway.

 

With a tilted shrug, he slings the bag off his shoulder and drops it onto the floor beside his usual desk. Careful, black-gloved hands settle his Arithmancy book onto its surface. Before he even sits down, uneasy grey eyes dart across the room.

 

She is staring at him.

 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he stares back.

 

She narrows her eyes, clearly annoyed, probably by the clunk of his heavy bag against the hard stone floor. He finds himself returning a similar sneer of disdain, and she rolls her eyes before turning away from him.

 

He imagines strolling over there to her desk and strangling the life out of her. The idea of her at his mercy causes a less than sane look of zeal to pass over his face.

 

But then the bell rings, and the fantasy ends.

 

Draco Malfoy sits down in his seat and doesn’t lie to himself—he wants to see Hermione Granger gasping for breath while he crushes the life out of her.

 

He never imagines her dead, though.

 

His eyes stray to his left, where a Slytherin quickly averts his gaze from him.

 

He feels an irrational, fleeting moment of panic.

 

They must know.

 

 

 

_ii. everything you are_

 

 _So_ , Draco thinks, as he falls through the sky like a wingless bird, _this is dying_.

 

Green envelops what little he can see as he tumbles downward, the Quidditch robes obscuring half of his vision. Wind pounds against him painfully; the roars of the spectators seem so far away and hollow in his ears.

 

It’s just like one of those nightmares he sometimes has. Only this is more surreal. Dying in a dream has always made more sense to him; he feels so fragile in them, so breakable, like a brittle twig in the hands of a merciless child. The feeling of immortality he has in the conscious world no longer bears any lingering snags on his subconscious as he falls, though—and for some irresponsible reason now, he is going to die.

 

He wonders briefly what he looks like, falling through the sky. Like a green and silver tumbleweed plummeting to the Quidditch Pitch below? Zabini told him about tumbleweeds in the American deserts last week; he doesn’t know why it sticks to his memory now.

 

Draco pushes past the flapping Quidditch robes with his arms, reaches out for something that isn’t there. He hollers something, something he doesn’t know, something about help and apology, but no one hears him. Least of all himself.

 

He falls and falls and falls.

 

How much longer will it take to hit the bottom?

 

He screams something then, louder than anything else he has hollered, and suddenly the roar in the Quidditch stadium dies to a whisper, a murmur.

 

Draco knows he is close now. He shuts his eyes tightly, bracing for impact, but—in hope—his arm still reaches out, hand open and waiting.

 

There is a painful enough jerk to make him scream, leaving his mouth open and his face twisted in agony—and he stops.

 

There is nothing but silence now.

 

He opens his eyes, looking upward. First at the hand that is gripping his own tightly—so tightly that its knuckles are deathly white. Then at the red robes engulfing his savior. Finally, at the face staring down at his in what can only be described as terror.

 

The name is in his head, but he doesn’t say it out loud.

 

 _Potter_.

 

There is no hesitation as Draco clasps Potter’s arm with his other hand, holding on more securely, saying nothing, showing nothing but his wide and fearful eyes and the relief that is now flooding them.

 

Potter carefully lowers them to the ground, and once they are safe on the sand, the entire stadium goes up in cheering roars for the hero of the day.

 

For once, Draco does not begrudge Potter his success.

 

He is too thankful to be alive for that.

 

 

 

_iii. everything you were_

 

Snow is falling, covering Hogsmeade in a blanket of ice, and Draco feels right at home surrounded by all the white and grey.

 

He treks down the street and pushes into the nearest shop. He finds himself in the middle of a Christmas gift-shopping crowd in Honeydukes. Gazing around at the heads in the store, he ends up spotting a familiar shock of red hair at the counter by the cash register.

 

Curious, Draco saunters through the crowd, carefully parting the patrons as he makes for his destination at the counter.

 

It is Weasley and Weaslette.

 

“She likes the creamy chocolates. You know, the ones with different creams inside them? They have Muggle candies like that and—”

 

“Are you sure? I mean, I heard her say the other day how much she enjoyed those . . . those . . . damn, what do you call them? Those . . . _argh!_ Those things right _there!_ ”

 

“Ron, she was just trying to be _nice_ to Seamus. She wasn’t going to tell him they tasted like Cockroach Clusters when he obviously thought they were delicious.”

 

“Why didn’t she just agree with Dean then, and say they were horrible?”

 

“Oh, come on, Ron! Don’t you know Hermione by now? She doesn’t like to hurt people’s feelings!”

 

“Well, she doesn’t object to calling Malfoy a smarmy, little ferr—”

 

“I do believe,” Draco cuts in smoothly, causing both Weasley and his little sister to whirl around in alarm at the sound of his voice behind them, “that she prefers the imitation chocolates.”

 

Weasley’s eyes immediately narrow to slits at Draco. “Is that so, _Malfoy_?” he retorts through clenched teeth.

 

Weaslette looks just as viciously at Draco, but she tugs at her brother’s arm. “Ron—” she warns.

 

“Of course,” Draco replies nonchalantly, “after all, Mudbloods prefer anything as long as it isn’t pure . . . which proves to be such a pity for you, Weasley—”

 

“I’ll _kill_ him!” Weasley shouts, drawing the attention of almost every patron in Honeydukes as he pulls his wand out and aims it at Draco. “I don’t care _who_ they think you are!” Weasley hisses at Draco, poking him with the tip of his wand as he advances on him. “I _know_ you, Malfoy,” Weasley says, a strange gleam in his eyes. “I know _exactly_ what you are.”

 

Draco holds the fiery gaze with a look so cool and collected, the slightest of smirks itching at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t draw his wand.

 

“Ron!” Ginny warns. “Ron, stop it! You’re going to get us in trouble!”

 

“You think you know me so well, Weasley?” Draco asks smoothly, the smirk on his face twitching into a scowl. “You don’t know _anything_ —”

 

A teacher bustles into the shop—McGonagall—and she tells Weasley to put away his wand. She gives them both detention. Draco argues that he didn’t take his wand out, but McGonagall glares at him once, and, surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything else.

 

 

 

_iv. your number has been called_

 

“Mr. Malfoy?”

 

Draco’s hand jerks away from the silver instrument and he looks up. Dumbledore is standing by his desk, a weary smile on his weathered face.

 

“Please, sit down.”

 

Draco obeys, taking careful steps towards Dumbledore’s desk, and plops himself unceremoniously into the chair on his right.

 

Dumbledore looks down at his desk and tenderly plucks something out of a bowl. He offers it to Draco. “Lemon drop?” he says.

 

Draco furrows his brows, but accepts the candy. It is sour, but not bad. He sucks on it until it is small, and then chews the shrunken piece of candy. It sticks in his teeth.

 

Dumbledore smiles contentedly. “I have always had certain affections for Muggle sweets.”

 

Draco gulps at this, his eyes growing wide. “ _Muggle?_ ” he exclaims. “You just gave me _Muggle_ candy?”

 

“Quite delicious, wasn’t it?”

 

Draco opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. He finally scowls. “It was _disgusting_ ,” he lies.

 

Dumbledore frowns then, looking thoughtfully at Draco. He appears slightly sad at Draco’s reaction.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” he says with care, “there are moments to wear our masks, and there are moments to take them off. As long as you are in my office, you are not at the dance, and I would ask you to please remove it.”

 

Draco shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

 

“I can imagine how this must be difficult for you to adjust to, but it was your own choice to come to us—if I may remind you. I, in return, ask for nothing more than your honesty and sincerity while you are in my company. Do you think that is a fair trade, Mr. Malfoy?”

 

Draco doesn’t meet Dumbledore’s eyes. He remains silent, fiddling with a loose string on his robe until he is suddenly reminded of Weasley and disgustedly pulls his fingers away from the dangling thread.

 

“Mr. Malfoy?” Dumbledore asks softly. “Do you think that is a fair trade?”

 

Draco swallows a build-up of saliva in the back of his throat and, still not meeting the Headmaster’s gaze, slowly nods in agreement.

 

Dumbledore smiles, albeit wearily.

 

“That is all, Mr. Malfoy,” he says. “You are dismissed.”

 

 

 

_v. fights_

 

They are scrubbing away furiously, pointedly ignoring each other at first.

 

Finally, Draco drops the toothbrush and growls in indignant anger.

 

“This is _torture!_ ” he exclaims, wanting to swipe the fallen hair out of eyes, but the state of his grimy hands and robes keep him from doing so.

 

“That’s the whole point, Malfoy,” Weasley states sourly, still scrubbing away at inside of the cauldron in his hands.

 

Draco scowls in disgust at the whole pile of cauldrons still left to scrub clean. He looks over at Weasley, who looks like a train wreck, which is nothing new, but he cannot imagine how bad _he_ must look as well. A single glance down at his arms says all that he needs to know.

 

“This is absolutely foul!” Draco declares. “I look hideous!”

 

“Look!” Weasley says furiously. “Just shut up and scrub already so we can get this over with, alright, Malfoy?”

 

“This is _servant’s_ work!”

 

“SCRUB!” Weasley suddenly bellows, and Draco finally turns his attention to him. Weasley is holding the cauldron in his lap, one of his hands hidden inside it. He is glaring rather pointedly at Draco.

 

“I don’t follow orders from those _below_ me,” Draco sneers.

 

In a split second, Weasley is on his feet, and before Draco can prepare himself, the taller boy tackles him to the floor. The back of his head hits concrete and stars burst in front of his eyes. It takes a moment of recovery before Draco realizes his position, and he struggles against the redhead on top of him, but Weasley is bigger than him and a whole lot stronger. He thrashes madly until Weasley gets a firm grip on his neck; Draco stills. Weasley doesn’t tighten his grip, but he doesn’t remove it either.

 

“Now who’s below _who?_ ” Weasley asks bitterly.

 

Draco says nothing, and to his surprise, Weasley lets him go, shoving him to the side as he releases his neck—as if he’s repulsed by touching him. Draco flares in anger; it should be the other way around.

 

Weasley returns to his duty, and without looking at Draco, he simply says one thing: “Scrub the damn _cauldrons_ , Malfoy.”

 

Draco’s jaw clenches and unclenches. Without his wand, he can’t harm Weasley.

 

He says nothing, but picks up the gritty toothbrush and another cauldron rather viciously.

 

And he scrubs.

 

 

 

_vi. the battles have begun_

 

“He’s one of them.”

 

Draco pauses at the sound of Weasley’s voice floating over from the library table right across from the bookshelf he is browsing at. He hears someone sigh—a girl. Granger, he thinks, and when the girl speaks, his suspicions are confirmed. After all, what other females deign to hang around Weasley, anyway?

 

“Ron, you are overacting,” Granger says reasonably. “Sure, it’s Malfoy, but he wouldn’t very well go through all this trouble if he was one of them.”

 

“If he was a spy he would!” Weasley argues. “Snape was a spy,” he adds. “Malfoy could be the same thing, you know. Only the other way around.”

 

“Why is he adamant about not being caught, then? Why’s he so careful about how he acts, Ron? Did you see his face last week? When Dumbledore suspected that Lucius knew? Did you see the look on Malfoy’s face? He was absolutely _terrified_. He’s been unsettled ever since. Malfoy’s not intelligent enough to try that hard. He would think we were stupid enough to fall for _anything_ . . . ” Granger trails off for a moment, and through slits between the books and shelf Draco can see her shaking her head softly. His nails dig into the spine of the book he is clutching.

 

“What he was feeling wasn’t fake,” Granger finishes. “He was scared, Ron. He was really and truly scared.”

 

Weasley is quiet, and Draco feels the anger welling in him like boiling water, blistering and volatile. The insults behind the mirror sting so much more than those aimed directly at it. Not now, though. Not when there’s work to be done.

 

“He’s a good actor,” Weasley tries half-heartedly, seemingly already convinced by Granger’s diatribe.

 

“He’s on our side,” Granger counters.

 

“I still don’t like him,” Weasley says.

 

“No one said you had to, Ron.”

 

Draco has heard enough. He viciously jerks the book off the shelf and checks it out, leaving the library in haze of anger he can’t eradicate.

 

 _How little_ , he thinks. _How bloody little_ —

 

Draco has never been very good with controlling his emotions.

 

 

 

_vii. revenge will surely come_

 

The book is lying out in the open when she comes by, and he doesn’t have time to grab it.

 

Granger takes it into her hands delicately. He is frozen three feet away.

 

A puzzled look crosses over her face. She looks up at him, down at the book, and back up at him again.

 

“Hamlet?” she asks softly.

 

Draco forces himself to walk the three feet between them and tear the book out from her hands. He sends it flying across the room behind himself, as if he doesn’t care if it gets damaged. Truth is, he does.

 

“Why are you reading Hamlet? That’s Muggle literature—”

 

Draco slams his fist against the wall behind Granger. He relishes in the way she flinches in fear. He almost feels sorry that it isn’t her head.

 

“I’m brushing up on my acting skills,” Draco lies smoothly.

 

Draco doesn’t stop to think about how that must mean he was in the Muggle section of the library. He also doesn’t stop to think that Hermione knows this. He just wants her out of his sight before he does something he’s going to truly find reason to regret. His fist itches for blood and her jaw looks so perfect.

 

He sees red.

 

“Malfoy, what are you—what are you _doing_?”

 

His grip on her is iron. She struggles against it—wriggles like a worm in his grasp. He shoves her against the wall, knocking the breath out of her. She inhales sharply and tenses up, ready for the blow, the hiss, the kick—whatever he plans on doing next, or whatever he isn’t planning to do but is likely to follow through with in this current situation.

 

But he just glares at her—all hate, and nothing left to spare.

 

When he lets her go, shoving her to the side, the genuine surprise in her face is almost good enough to sate the anger within.

 

“Now who’s scared, Granger?” he says quietly, venom fueling the words.

 

She stares at him for a moment, but she doesn’t say anything. The moment of silence is almost weighing too heavily for him to breathe, and then, without much of any warning, she darts out of his grasp and disappears, hurrying footsteps echoing behind her.

 

Shortly after she’s gone, Draco begins to wonder if she was even scared of him at all.

 

 

 

_viii. your hard times are ahead_

 

There are moments when Draco just thinks in exclamation points.

 

When he’s shoved out of the Astronomy Tower window, it’s one of those moments.

 

He has the extremely lucky chance of being able to grab onto a stone fixture outside the window. Draco clings to it while his breathing escalates into dangerous territory, and he doesn’t get to see the bastards who plotted this; he can hear their footsteps as they run away. He looks up and his heart almost falls out of his chest.

 

He is too far below the window to be able to reach it and climb back in.

 

 _My wand!_ he thinks, looking down at his robes.

 

It is a mistake.

 

What looks like a mile below him is lots of green grass and the occasional specks of what might just be trees.

 

He quickly looks back up, shutting his eyes tightly and counting to ten. The sickness in his stomach is overwhelming, however, and Draco thinks he might just let go because of that—but then the image of hitting the ground below makes him tighten his grip again. There are better ways to die than this.

 

Draco then realizes that this is the second near-death experience he has had in one week.

 

Clearly, someone wants him dead.

 

He holds on tightly, curling his strong arm around the small stone statue. He carefully lets go with the other hand and reaches down into his pocket for his wand. Once it is firm in his grasp, he lifts it up to the tower’s outer surface and mutters a spell to form steps that he can grab onto.

 

He climbs his way back into the Astronomy Tower, but his assaulters are long gone and his heart is racing too fast for him to chase after whoever it might have been. He falls to the floor, and stays there for a good twenty minutes at least. Just breathing.

 

He needs to start watching his back more often.

 

 

 

_ix. don't let yourself down_

 

“ . . . Malfoy?”

 

Draco ignores the voice. He tries to focus on the work in front of him. It’s bad enough he has waited this late to start on his essay. He’s never been this stressed out before, though, and the toll it’s taking on his mind and body are becoming more and more evident each day.

 

His quill scratches across the parchment more fervently, but the voice persists.

 

“Malfoy . . . ”

 

Draco notices the edginess, the slight annoyance in the other person’s tone. He realizes he must be too obvious with his ignoring tactics. Maybe he should buy some of those bewitched earmuffs that play music. At least then he wouldn’t have to deal with interruptions as pestering as—

 

“ _Malfoy_.”

 

Draco turns around quickly in his chair, quill still poised in his hand as he slings his arm across the back. “What the _bloody_ hell do you want, Potter?”

 

“You missed the meeting yesterday,” Potter informs him, crossing his arms in that superior way that is supposed to make Draco feel bad. Draco sneers.

 

“Do you really think I care?” Draco snaps. Immediately, he turns his back to Potter, hoping the other boy will get the message.

 

Apparently not.

 

“Look, Draco,” Potter says, saying the other boy’s first name as if it’s as natural as breathing and they’ve been doing this forever and a day, “despite what some of the others . . . might say . . . we need you. We need you, Draco, and we can’t do this without you.”

 

The brief moment of silence almost swallows up the room.

 

“ . . . You do know that, don’t you?”

 

Draco stares forward at nothingness—no, not nothingness—dusty books and aged wooden shelves containing the secrets of ages beyond his time, a series of stories frozen in time. He sees a page before him, a page of history, sees his name shining back at him on the parchment.

 

Larger than his, though, shines Potter’s.

 

Potter’s will always shine brighter than anyone’s; Draco knows that, but the child in him doesn’t want that. Petulance and bitter jealousy strive inside of him like plagues, spreading disease and weakness to his better parts. He has never claimed to be perfect, and he never was.

 

But one thing rings louder in his head than any of the other bells.

 

_We need you, Draco, and we can’t do this without you._

 

Draco closes his eyes against the onslaught of words inside his head, against the human sentiments still raging within that brought him to this point in time in the first place.

 

_. . . You do know that, don’t you?_

 

To be perfectly honest, he wishes he didn’t.

 

 

 

_x. don't let yourself go_

 

It isn’t safe, like an obvious trapdoor in the floor before his feet, but he knew the repercussions long before he signed on for the job and backing out now isn’t an option. Betrayal on either side is not an act smiled upon, and he will not be greeted with open arms because of a sudden change of heart.

 

He cannot see their faces. Masks like the plaster of statues stare back at him, white and pale. The black openings where their eyes are supposed to be are discernibly empty. Like statues they stand, and like statues they have no feeling in them to quite be called human.

 

This meeting is like many before. The many before he hasn’t seen. He still isn’t seeing it, just looking on from the shadows he isn’t supposed to be in.

 

Distrust still remains.

 

It is his duty to get close to them. He knows that. To discover things and divert them before they can become a problem. To unlock the secrets and links and pick them—erode them—until they break or loosen.

 

He does his duty well, and leaves the shadows.

 

They are waiting.

 

 

 

_xi. your last chance has arrived_

 

“Malfoy?”

 

Draco hears the voice, soft in the small hallway behind him, and he stops.

 

He turns around, seeing Granger watching him in the darkness. A perfect shade to bestow itself upon them; they look like they shouldn’t be there. And maybe they really shouldn’t be.

 

“What?” he asks, curt and short. It is his style. She knows that by now. He isn’t going to be nice just for her.

 

“You can still back out,” she says.

 

The following silence fills the space between them, ringing like mocking laughter. Draco wants so much to fall to his knees, laughing at the absurdity of it all. How did he even get here, to this place? With her, of all people?

 

Yet he doesn’t crack a smile, and the pale gleam of night frames his features like they are the picturesque and not quite human qualities of the god Hades—only with silvery-blond hair and grey, empty eyes.

 

“You know it’s too late for that,” he says, and it’s not entirely true.

 

For a moment, she doesn’t answer.

 

“I know,” she finally says, but it’s not in agreement. It’s conciliation. She knows she cannot change his mind on this, and she isn’t going to try. She just wants to show him that there is still an opening if he wants to take it. There is a still a way out of this if he wants it.

 

She should’ve known he wouldn’t take it.

 

She doesn’t want to take it herself.

 

Draco turns around to leave, and she calls out to him, hurrying forward—not as Granger, as she always does, but as Hermione. He halts, knowing he shouldn’t, and turns to face her once more.

 

Hermione pushes into him as if the sky is burning above and around them; she tastes something like fire and incinerating paper in his mouth—like ash in the aftertaste.

 

Draco always thought it would be something closer to strawberries.

 

 

 

_xii. best_

 

“You might need this,” he says, handing over the rough and fraying leather book.

 

She takes it into her hands like a mother would accept an infant into her arms, cradling the object delicately in her grasp. The gilded words are ancient and faded, a language dead and yet very much alive when she whispers its name beneath her breath.

 

He hears the reverence in her voice, shares her sentiment quietly. They are both lovers of knowledge ( _knowledge as is referring to power, for there is power in the knowledge they speak of_ ), and their love is similar in many ways. He can tell by the glint in her eyes—not quite altruistic in its means—that she has reasons for wanting this book that the others wouldn’t entirely understand or even want to know.

 

He knows, though. He understands.

 

He passes on a sheet of parchment scribbled over with runic letters. She takes the parchment from his hand without looking up. Their fingers brush and eyes meet. Dark upon dark in the candlelit dimness of the small corridor.

 

He nods his head softly. “Be careful,” he says.

 

“I will,” she says, and it’s a lie. He bows his head and turns to leave. The corridor is long; his robe billows behind him like a wingless shadow.

 

“Draco,” she calls, and he stops to turn around. She can barely make out his face in the darkness. The white of his hair turns his face into a ghostly portrait, and his robes blend a little too well into the nightly surroundings.

 

“Thank you,” she says.

 

He may have smiled, but it is too dark to tell.

 

“You're welcome, Hermione.”

 

 

 

_xiii. you've got to be the best_

 

Potter is quiet these days.

 

Draco watches him more than usual. The time keeps drawing closer, the air thinning around them; at least that’s what the others say. For Draco, it has become quite the opposite: heavy and suffocating. He feels the pressure of a future. They see the beginning of an end.

 

He counts his days like stars in the sky. He won’t die anytime soon. That would be too merciful, wouldn’t it?

 

Potter may be gone by tomorrow, but he is a different story.

 

A very, very different story.

 

Draco isn’t a savior by any means, but he will be left when the ash and dust clear away. When the end is declared and everyone gets back on their feet, Draco will be standing with them. He will rise up amongst the dead bodies like a reanimated corpse, or like a resurrected god of mortal men. Maybe they will all flee in their own directions afterwards, or maybe they will flock like sheep to his side. “You knew Harry Potter?” they would ask, and he would tell them yes. Then they would follow him, for anyone who followed Harry Potter must be on the right path.

 

Or maybe that is just another dream of Draco’s, another unreachable goal—that when the savior is gone, he will lead the people.

 

Such cumbersome dreams he has sometimes.

 

He works for it, though. He tries his best to be as good as Potter, even though there are still those who doubt him, still those who believe in his loyalty to the other side. It is understandable. Alliances are secret for a reason; otherwise, how would one go about spying? You can’t very well sell someone out when they know you’re working for the opposition.

 

Appearances, appearances, appearances. It’s all about appearances.

 

Draco is not the best for lack of reason.

 

 

 

_xiv. you've got to change the world_

 

“What we’re doing,” Hermione says, “is for the good of all, Draco.”

 

Draco drums his fingers on the wooden table, a dull tap sounding in reply. He looks bored, and rightly so: they are in a small tutoring session that has managed to have a zero turnout of students. However, to the amusement of one of the professors, they cannot leave the room until the time is up in case any student wanders in late and does not get the help they so crucially deserve.

 

Draco at first is not sure which she is talking about: the tutoring or everything else.

 

Then he recognizes the code; everything they discuss in public is code. Even an empty classroom with an open door is public. Students are known for their sneakiness above all else in this school; he wouldn’t underestimate their abilities. Neither would she.

 

“Granger,” he says half-heartedly, “it’s bad enough I have to be in the same room as you. I’d rather not listen to your educational speeches on top of that.”

 

Hermione’s still face only gives away to the slightest twitch, but it isn’t a part of some act. She isn’t that good. What he said actually touched a nerve.

 

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” she says. “I try to be nice. I really do. Everyone else says you’re a no good—”

 

Draco cracks the slightest smile. “Ah, they’re too kind,” he says.

 

Hermione’s face tightens. Something isn’t right here. Draco notices it a little late, but she’s stiff as a board; she only does that when she’s under pressure . . .

 

He can’t look off at the doorway behind him and to the right, so instead he snatches her shiny inkbottle, eliciting a chirp of surprise from Hermione.

 

“Hey! Give that _back_ —”

 

Her attempt isn’t entirely serious, so he knows someone’s there. Taking the bottle into his hands, he holds it up to the light. Through the murky black glass, he sees the shadow of a figure near the doorway: a Slytherin, no more than second or third year. He’s seen him a few times around the common room; the boy is quite known for his big mouth.

 

“Ah, pity this isn’t top-notch ink,” Draco comments, lowering the bottle. “Otherwise, I might feel bad if I dropped it—” Like clockwork, the bottle slips from his hands. It smashes against the stone, splattering ink across the floor. Draco mock gasps. “Oh dear,” he says sarcastically, a sneer forming on his mouth, “what a mess.”

 

“Malfoy!” Hermione shouts. “You _arse_!”

 

“Language, Granger,” Draco chastises her. “Why, there may be little children around here.”

 

Huffing angrily, Hermione grabs her books and makes a beeline for the door. The young Slytherin hiding outside the room takes that moment to finally make himself known, though, startling Hermione. Or so she certainly seems.

 

“Hi,” he squeaks out, “I’m here for tutoring . . . ?”

 

Hermione pretends to calm herself down, taking deep breaths. “Well. Yes. Right, then.” Putting on a smile, she gestures at a nearby table—far away from Draco. “This way?”

 

The Slytherin follows her, darting eyes warily in Draco’s direction. The older Slytherin doesn’t even offer to help, just uses his wand to play around with meaningless charms in utter boredom.

 

They know by tomorrow all of Slytherin will have heard the story.

 

 

 

_xv. and use this chance to be heard_

 

The time has come, and Draco feels it as sure as a shadow descending over him.

 

He raises his wand, mutters the words before the Death Eaters even realize what is happening. Force in quietness, and he takes down five before they realize it is him; he runs, letting off the signal for attack.

 

Out of nowhere, people appear. A full-blown fight sends showers of colorful sparks in every direction. People are hit, and some of them fall. Some of them get back up again. Some of them don’t.

 

Draco sees the fall of the Dark Lord. The fall of Harry Potter. Good and evil, canceling each other out, leaving everyone in a dull, grey haze.

 

It all ends like a really bad dream.

 

Draco wakes up.

 

 

 

_xvi. your time is now_

 

When he rises from the bodies like something out of a morbid poem, covered in dirt and ash that he doesn’t want to contemplate the origins of, he finds there are still others standing. Others he knows, some he doesn’t.

 

Hermione meets his eyes from across a sea of limbs and shadowed faces. They step across the aftermath and meet each other halfway. They share nothing but silence at the end.

  
  
Silence for their treachery, which neither side knew. Now, they will stand, as King and Queen of a new world order.

 

When the others gather around them, they ask Draco if he knew Harry Potter.

 

The two of them share a look, the look of winners.

 

Draco turns to the others.

 

He tells them yes.

 

 


End file.
